doomsday_disco

Incense Smoke & Winter Herbs.

A wolfish grey transformed by the moon’s cold silver gleam.

Graham Cracker & Buttercream.

Iridescent rainbow flakies and pink galaxy glitter floating in a bubblegum pink jelly.

Happy Halloween, all! Brian here — Doc Constantine to some — making my occasional guest appearance narrating BPAL scent copy. The Porcelain Bat came into our lives last year, the morning we staggered home from New York Comic Con. Samantha and I were running on fumes—suitcases still in the car, clothes sticky from the long drive, brains mushy from lack of sleep. All we wanted was showers, silence, and unconsciousness. Instead, at the crack of dawn, we encountered a fluffy ball of chaos. Sam was the first to notice. She was upstairs when she heard a shuffle in the bathroom. At first, she thought it was a mouse, but when she leaned closer, she froze. Pressed against the frosted glass of our under-sink cabinet was the very distinct, unmistakable silhouette of a bat. One wing splayed, tiny body smushed, like it had been waiting all week for us. Her scream shook the walls: “BRIAN! THERE’S A FUCKING BAT IN THE BATHROOM!” I was so exhausted that her words barely made sense. “I know all those words,” I muttered, “but not in that order.” By the time my brain caught up, Sam had cracked the door open. The bat had managed to get out from under the sink and was boinging around the bathroom like a rubber Halloween toy brought to life. It zipped around the bathroom, frantic, wings flicking against tile and towel racks. For a creature that small, it felt huge—its wingspan may have been a mere handful of inches, but to us, shrieking bat-startled banshees, it was a twenty-foot beast. Everyone’s goth AF until a bat is flying straight at your face in your own house. Sam called every bat rescue service in Delco and all neighboring counties, but no one could give us an assist until at least ten hours later. We didn’t have that kind of time, not with the bathroom locked down and our bladders on strike. So we started preparing. I pulled on every piece of protective gear I owned: chainsaw helmet, gloves, goggles. If I could’ve found hockey pads, I would’ve worn those, too. Sam looked me over and frowned. “BUT YOUR NECK ISN’T COVERED!” I glared at her. “Don’t.” “WHAT IF IT’S A VAMPIRE BAT?” The joke is funny in hindsight, but in that moment I wasn’t laughing. I peeked through the old-fashioned keyhole, heart hammering, but saw nothing. Was it perched on the towels? Hanging from the door? Clinging to the ceiling like some tiny gargoyle? There was no way to know. So finally I muttered, “Fuck it,” shoved open the door, and went in with a plastic storage bin and a scrap of cardboard. Luck was on our side, and the little guy had ended up in the bathtub. The porcelain sides were too slick for him to climb: a tiny prisoner in the big white basin. Carefully, gently, we lowered the bin over him. He rustled his wings but didn’t fight. We slid the cardboard underneath, lifted him up, and carried him outside. Out on the porch, we set the box (opened, so he could make his way out on his terms) on a shady table and let him rest. Our tiny intruder, the Porcelain Bat, had survived his ordeal. And so had we. The sweet little guardian of our bathroom sink. The warm, unsettling thrum of musky fur and leathery wings smushed against frosted orris root and vanilla plaster dust.

Vanilla and Tobacco Flower.

A scent inspired by the debris left over from frantic last-minute costuming sessions. Torn scraps of velvety black voodoo lily mingled with dried rose petals and a flash of red peppercorn.

Dead Leaves and Mulling Spices.

Pumpkin candyfloss with strawberry cream and red currant.

Yipe! Atmo is similar to the perfume oil -- bold black cherry at first that gives way to the cream and dried (non-juicy!) blackberry note. Of course, the cherry sticks around longer with the atmo than it does in the perfume, but the end result is the same with that dried blackberry-infused cream with just a hint of cherry by the end of the day. As a cherry ho that used up all of her decant of the perfume oil years ago, I'm really glad I have a bottle of this, and I am kicking myself for missing out on the Yipe! Hair Gloss that was a happy accident that sold on Etsy. If you're a fan of the Lab's black cherry note, you need this one in your life!

I thought maybe I hit a book scent saturation point, especially when it comes to leathery book scents, but this is the best one of those I've smelled in a really long time. I get strong, yet smooth, well-worn leather, the warmth of the macadamia nuts, and the teak, which isn't too sharp on me in this and which makes the scent more sophisticated. I think it may be the same teak found in Carved Wooden Bawdy House. I am not getting a ton of smoke from this, and for that, I am glad, as I don't always jive with the Lab's smoke notes. I also am not getting much beeswax from this, even though I love that note, although I wouldn't be surprised if it were helping to further smooth things over and sweeten things up in the background. I mostly just got a decant of this because of its popularity at Dragon Con, but this is right up there with Picture Books in Winter and Jólabókaflóð as far as warm, sweet leathery book scents go. I'm going to have to spend some more time with my decant, but I'm definitely debating a bottle. This is one of the standouts from this year's Weenie collection.

Flapjacks drowning in an intoxicating blend containing wormwood essence, light mints, cardamom, anise, hyssop, and the barest hint of lemon.

Dead Leaves, Funeral Lilies, and Beeswax Candles.

Just imagine all the tattoos hidden below as you walk through the cemetery... maybe you’ll get to see some of them in person one day! Grave loam, mushrooms, Spanish moss, a smear of ink, and a blob of braaaains.

The mists that slept on the river’s brim. Went up like the wings of the cherubim. The water-lilies so cold and fair Were tangled with tresses of bright brown hair. The osiers bent with a quiet grace over a form with a still, white face. The river flow’d with a desolate moan, And dead leaves fell on the cold grey stone. – Sarah T. Bolton A mist-shrouded river, laden with sorrow: water lilies, wild plum, carrot seed, jasmine petals, and yellow bergamot pouring over moss-covered stones.

An impossibly sweet concoction of green tea and frothed almond milk poured over fresh rose petals and glistening tapioca pearls.

Vintage Kitty Blow Molds is primarily a mango scent on me, although it reminds me of something more like a mango curd than a mango sorbet. The clove in this is pretty tame on me, which is weird since I feel like I tend to amp that note (but it would be fine if I had, as I love the note). So it's mostly a tangy mango scent on me, with a dash of clove, until the end of the day, when it's morphed to the plastic-y bright amber that's the blow mold part of the scent, made a little fruity by what remains of the mango. I think I'm going to keep the decant, as I think this would be fun to wear while it's still too hot to wear my autumnal scents, but everyone's stalking Weenies. I'll have to retest it to see if I need more of it before it goes away.

This smells like cheap chocolate on buttered pumpkin bread. I say cheap chocolate because of the waxiness of the sprinkles, although Dutch hagelslag sprinkles are completely unlike American sprinkles, aren't hard or waxy, and taste way better (and there's also a vlokfeest version that's like chocolate flakes instead of sprinkle shapes). I totally get the choice to use a note more akin to American sprinkles, though, as most people wouldn't be familiar with the Dutch stuff. Eventually, the chocolate fades away, and I'm left with a syrupy sweet pumpkin scent by the end of the day. I thought I was going to prefer this to Pumpkin Zucchini Bread, but I actually think that I like that one better! Still, if you want a pumpkin and chocolate combo that isn't heavily spiced, give this one a try.

A twinkling rosy rosé garnished with a curly sliver of clove-studded orange peel.

Unreleased scent from a fantasy film. White taffeta, silver glitter, and pale florals.

About two miles from the village of Canton, Me., is a cosey, old-fashioned farm-house which is located directly opposite a graveyard, with no other house in sight. From the window of this little house nothing can be seen except the graveyard with its gleaming stones, and the hills and mountains round about. The family that has been occupying the house moved out not long ago, declaring that they could not stand it any longer, that they were wellnight distracted by the demonstrations. When they told their story a former resident, who now lives in Hartford, announced that he had known for years that the place was haunted. He had not told any one for fear of the ridicule of his neighbors. The demonstrations were not only in the house, but in the barn and around the premises. Regularly every night at 12 o’clock a team of horses rushes from the direction of the village, rumbles over the little bridge at a slashing gait, and then disappears. It never reaches the house. Instead, ghostly voices address the members of the family who have the temerity to live there, the voices coming from all parts of the house, but never so clearly that they can be located. On one memorable night a member of the family went to the barn just at dusk without a lantern. A figure stood at the corner of the building, and he ran to learn what the straggler wanted about the place. The figure silently and mysteriously melted into the shadows and was gone. The Buffalo News, April 20, 1904 A spectral cacophony of shimmering, translucent dun sandalwood, grey amber, and wraith-chilled chestnut galloping through the mist-cloaked shadows of time, a clattering of clove and black pepper, and a crack of phantom leather.

It is stripped off—the paper—in great patches all around the head of my bed, about as far as I can reach, and in a great place on the other side of the room low down. I never saw a worse paper in my life. One of those sprawling flamboyant patterns committing every artistic sin. It is dull enough to confuse the eye in following, pronounced enough to constantly irritate, and provoke study, and when you follow the lame, uncertain curves for a little distance they suddenly commit suicide—plunge off at outrageous angles, destroy themselves in unheard-of contradictions. The color is repellant, almost revolting; a smouldering, unclean yellow, strangely faded by the slow-turning sunlight. It is a dull yet lurid orange in some places, a sickly sulphur tint in others. No wonder the children hated it! I should hate it myself if I had to live in this room long. A smouldering, unclean scent: turmeric-dusted acrid marigold, linseed oil, bitter orange peel, crumbling plaster, clotted vanilla, and a whiff of sweet mildew.

Capturing the essence of another Pseudo-Albertine book Egyptian Secrets. A title intended to evoke exotic origins, Egyptian Secrets collects remedies for fevers and burns, alongside protective magics against witchcraft, dog bites, and thieves. Myrrh resin, green cardamom, golden saffron, and honeyed fig.

Peaches, pomegranates, black figs, baked red clay, and cacao spiced with chili peppers and sweetened with honey. Juan de Zurbarán

An oil of courage, daring, and reckless, unbridled joy. Contains: dragon’s blood absolute, frankincense, Tahitian vanilla absolute, blood orange, master root, apricot fruit compound, ginger root, heliotropin natural isolate, and fossilized amber.